Chapter 26
SAWYER
The first thing I feel is the ache—dull and throbbing, everywhere. My wrists burn. My ankles, too. My head is heavy, thick with a chemical fog I can’t shake off. I blink, forcing my eyes to open, but it’s like moving underwater. Everything’s slow. Wrong.
It’s dark. Not pitch black, but dim, with only a sliver of weak light leaking around the edges of thick curtains.
The air smells like dust, sweat, something metallic and old.
I try to move, to sit up, and that’s when I feel it—the cold, brutal bite of steel around my wrists.
Chains rattle as I tug, panic searing through me in a rush.
I’m handcuffed to a bed.
How long have I been here? Where even is here?
The last thing I remember is the driveway—the van, a hand over my mouth, a sweet chemical scent burning my nose and throat—then nothing.
I test the cuffs, pulling hard, but they barely budge.
The chains clank dully against the iron bed frame.
My breath stutters, fast and shallow, each inhale catching in my throat as I fight to keep the rising panic from swallowing me whole.
I try to slow it—count to four, in and out—but it barely takes the edge off.
That’s when I notice it.
A shape—someone—sitting in the far corner, deep in the shadows. I squint, my eyes still adjusting, and finally see it: a man in a mask, face hidden in darkness, motionless except for the faint glint of his eyes watching me. Just watching.
I can’t see his face. I can barely make out anything at all. But I know—somehow—I’m not alone. And I’m not safe.
The silence between us is thick, suffocating. My panic spikes, but I force myself to meet his stare, refusing to look away.
My voice is small, trembling. “What do you want from me?”
The mask doesn’t move. The silence is a threat in itself.
And that’s when the genuine fear starts—because I have no idea who he is, if he’s even real, how long I’ve been here, or what’s coming next.
All I know is that nobody knows where I am.
And he’s waiting for me to break.
The room spins. I try to fight it, but the panic and the leftover chemicals are too much. My eyelids flutter, the world fading around the edges until I’m falling—weightless, nowhere.
***
When I wake again, it’s just as silent. The ache is still there, but the fog is thinner now, my thoughts sharper and meaner. I blink; my vision is clearer in the low light. The handcuffs bite; the chain links cool against my skin. I can taste fear at the back of my throat.
The corner where I saw the masked man is empty.
I stare at it, waiting for a movement, a shadow, anything that says I didn’t imagine it. But there’s nothing. The chair sits there, facing me, but it’s just a shape in the dark.
But I know I wasn’t alone. I felt someone watching. I still do—the prickling on my skin, the sense that every sound I make is being measured, weighed.
I wait—minutes, maybe hours, tick by.
I listen for footsteps, for breathing, for anything outside the soft metallic jingle every time I move.
Do I want to scream? To demand answers?
Yes, but the thought of that masked figure reappearing, of hearing his voice, roots me to the bed. I want answers, but I don’t want him to come back.
My breath comes shallow, lips parting with the urge to call out, but I swallow it down, heart pounding so loud I’m afraid it might echo.
Instead, I listen and wait.
Terrified that he might return.
And even more terrified that he never will.
My pulse thunders in my ears, and I count my breaths trying to slow my heart.
The sound of footsteps creaking over old wood somewhere outside the door brings me back to the edge of panic. I hold my breath, every muscle straining, the chains rattling as I try to make myself smaller. The steps stop. Silence returns, so heavy it’s almost suffocating.
A few minutes later, the doorknob clicks. The hinges shriek as the door swings open, slicing through the darkness. I want to scream. I want to close my eyes and disappear, but I can’t. I can’t look away. I have to see what’s coming for me.
He walks in—tall, all in black. The mask isn’t cheap plastic or some Halloween joke. It’s stiff and glossy, half silver, half matte black, angular and almost expressionless. Dead eyes stare back from behind silver and shadow. My blood runs cold.
He closes the distance with slow, unhurried steps, boots silent on the warped floorboards. I swallow my scream, my voice tiny and cracking.
“Please don’t,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Don’t come any closer. Please don’t hurt me. Please, what do you want?”
He says nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. Just stands over me, the mask reflecting slivers of light, his stare burning through me.
When he steps to the edge of the bed, I see his hand behind his back—my terror spikes. My heart tries to climb out of my chest.
This is it. This is how I die.
What is he hiding? A weapon? A knife? Something worse?
He brings his hand forward slowly. It’s just a bottle of water like you would buy in bulk. He cracks the lid, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s a trick, if he’s poisoned it, if this is just the beginning.
He holds the bottle out to me, silent. I turn my head away, biting down on the urge to cry. I want nothing from him I’d rather die of thirst than let him have the satisfaction.
He sucks in a sharp breath, sudden anger flaring. Then, so fast I barely see it, his gloved hand snaps out, gripping my face by the cheeks, turning my head back to him. The plastic bottle hovers at my lips, and he pours cold water into my mouth, making it spill down my chin, soaking my throat.
I choke, sputter, try to spit it out, but he doesn’t care. He clamps his hand over my mouth, sealing it tight, forcing me to swallow or drown.
Tears sting my eyes as I choke down the water, terror and humiliation burning through me. He lets go when he’s sure it’s gone. Then he tosses the empty bottle to the floor, the silence swallowing us again.
I gasp for air, coughing as my vision blurs, shame and fear twisting inside me.
He stays close—too close—his masked face hovering over mine, shadow and silver filling my vision. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move away.
I can feel his gaze moving over every inch of me—my wrists red and raw against the cuffs, my legs pulled taut by the chains, the way my chest rises and falls too fast with every panicked breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still feel him drinking me in, hungry, possessive, patient.
Then he leans in, so close I can feel the chill of the mask graze my skin. His breath stirs the hair at my ear.
He doesn’t speak.
He sniffs me—slow, deliberate, right at the curve of my neck. The sound he makes—almost a groan, barely a sound—makes my skin crawl. It’s not lust, exactly. It’s something darker. Ownership. Hunger.
My rage flashes. Before I can stop myself, I spit—hard, right on the cold metal of his mask.
He freezes, then slowly leans back. For a split second, the mask stares at me—and then his shoulders shake, not with anger.
He’s laughing.
A silent, twisted laugh, like my defiance is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
And then I see it—a glint, silver and sharp in the half-light.
A knife, long and thin, flashed in his hand.
Oh, fuck, Sawyer. Why couldn’t you stay quiet? Why did you have to spit on him?
He points the knife at me, the blade gleaming, steady and unhurried. The mask tips, and I know—without a word—that my act of rebellion just changed everything.
I press back against the mattress, shaking, breath coming in frantic bursts. My voice is a whisper. “Please—don’t—”
He keeps laughing silently, the knife following every panicked twitch I make. There’s nothing I can do but pray my stubbornness hasn’t cost me everything.
He doesn’t speak. He lowers the knife; the blade glinting in the thin light, and rests the icy edge against my bare thigh. My breath stutters, the chill of metal burning deeper than any bruise.
He drags the knife down, leaving a cold trail from the top of my thigh to my ankle.
He lingers there, blade pressing just enough to make my skin burn, then starts the agonizing crawl back up.
My whole body is trembling, muscles twitching as I try not to flinch or cry out.
The mask never moves, but I know he’s watching every shiver.
He traces the knife up—over my knee, along the curve of my thigh, to the hem of Jasper’s hoodie. He hesitates, and I can feel the shift in him—his whole body going tense, rage flaring up like a fire.
Suddenly, he’s frantic. The knife hacks and pulls, yanking the fabric, slicing up the thick cotton like it’s paper.
I scream as I hear tearing, the metallic zip of the blade through Jasper’s scent, my safety, the last scrap of him I had left.
He rips the hoodie from my body, tossing the shredded pieces aside.
Now I’m left in nothing but my tank top and the sleep shorts I put on what feels like a lifetime ago, back when the world was normal, back when I still had hope.
I’m exposed, freezing, every inch of skin tingling from fear and the rush of cold air. He stands over me, chest rising and falling, the mask unreadable but his intent clear—this is about power, humiliation, erasing anything that isn’t his.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I stare up at him, silent, daring him to do his worst, even as I pray for mercy.
I stare him down, and he shakes his head. I can see from his body language that he’s still raging. He rushes out the door, slamming it on his way out.
And I’m left alone again.
I count the seconds to keep my mind from fracturing, from slipping into panic.
JASPER
I haven’t slept. None of us has. Every hour without her feels like it’s grinding my bones to dust.